North Italy x Reader: Cooking Lessons
by SunshineBlondie
Summary: North Italy x Reader. What happens when Feli tries to teach you how to make pasta? Cheesiness ensues! o3o


"Ciao bella!" North Italy calls, opening the door, welcoming you to his lovely home. The corners of your mouth had raised when you heard his doorbell, a tiny symphony of Il Canto degli Italiani. He gives you a kiss on each cheek, the complete Italian thing to do, and skips towards the kitchen. You grin. The sweet aroma from it wafts around you, begging you to follow it. So you do. All you can think of is pasta fagioli, prosciutto pizza, and other cultural delights of his.

"It's nice to see you Feliciano," you tell him, wondering if he'd mind that you want to grab one of his spoons, and take a taste of whatever is in that boiling pot, lying comfortably on the stove. It's silver and bubbling and the tempting steam runs across the room, floating directly under your nose, driving you mad.

"Iz good to see you too," he says, wiping his flour-smeared hands on the dishcloth. Sunlight from the window pools onto his fiery chestnut hair, the curl sticking out adorably. His Lacoste pink polo shirt fits nicely around him, dark blue shorts accommodating his knobby knees. You know if it was up to him, he'd probably be in his boxers all day, lazing about watching RAI. But, with a life as busy as his, he needs to wake up and try not to sleep through out the day. He's about as tall as you are, 5, 6, maybe a centimetre over.

"Sooo..." You let your voice trail off, taking your (h/c) ponytail out, letting your soft hair fall, landing perfectly against your sun-kissed shoulders. This is supposed to be seductive, you've seen France do this hundreds of times. And he's like, the king of infatuating people. But Feliciano, being the clueless Italian he is, just looks at you, the way he looks at anyone. The same dopey, nirvana expression.

"Si?" he asks, sprinkling salt and other spices into his tempting pot. He doesn't look behind, in fear of ruining his dish.

"Do you really have to give me cooking lessons? Because I wouldn't mind just watching you cook and letting me help you eat it all later." You giggle dryly, because really, you do not want to learn how to cook. You're perfectly okay with microwavable dinners, or even Britain's damn scones. You only mentioned cooking lessons to spend more time with Italy. Of course, you couldn't tell him cooking didn't matter to you. When he heard that you wanted to learn from him, he ran around exclaiming, "I get to teach someone how to do something now?! Me? Usually it's Germany teaching everything! Yahooooo!~" so you couldn't break his spirits. Ludwig already does that enough, as does his older, extremely dickish brother. You agreed to meet with him that Saturday, the only day he was free. The next day is Sunday, church day, when he and his family happily go altogether.

Feliciano just laughs, pinching another auburn substance in his pot. The aroma began to smell even better then before. "Of course, (y/n). How else will you learn? Also, that iz the lazy way."

You roll your sparkling (e/c) eyes. "Are you really one to talk?" He just smiles, and you smile right back.

"Okay, ferst, you must-a wash your hands." Feliciano squirts a green Cucina soap onto his hands, washing them for a good minute. He looks expectantly at you.

"I just washed them five minutes ago," you explain with a smirk. He just stares at you.

"Ferst you must-a wash your hands."

"... okay then."

After you've basically washed every germ off your smooth hands, Feliciano explains that you must set the oven to a specific time, then you must get your pot, fill it with water, and let it boil on the stove. He looks like he wants to have a heart attack when you take out a seemingly normal pot.

"Ma che cosa fai?!" he cries, waving a hand around.

"What?" you ask, looking around the room for a fire. "What's wrong?"

"That's the wrong pot! Look how small it iz!"

You widen your eyes. "_This_ is small?"

"Si! Here, we must get the bigger one."

After that little, or should you say, big (ohonhonhon), hiccup, the water is heated. Both of you pour the spaghetti into the pot, watching the hard pasta mould into flexible strings. It is supposed to be "al dente." Your hand brushes his slightly, and a small blush grows on you. Of course, he is oblivious to it.

Feliciano sets out napkins, spoons, and forks on his table. "Every Italian meal must have: pane." He holds up a basket of bread. "Sugo." He gently places a bowl of tomato sauce onto the table. "Vino." He grabs a bottle of red wine. "And salami." On the centre of the table, he puts a plate with patterns along the edges, thick circular slices of salami resting there.

You smile. "How are you so good at this? I mean, you paint, you cook, you're just completely awesome."

He chuckles, setting out two glasses, pouring wine into them. "Eh, mio nonno taught me the... come si dice? Arts?" You nod. "And, mia nonna, taught me how to cook."

"You're very good at them," you comment, a little jealous.

"You can be too," he says, flashing you a grin. You turn red, not realizing how hard you've been stirring the pasta. You lift the burning pot, pouring all the water out, fishing the yellow spaghetti into another bowl. It smells delicious. Finally, you paint the sauce over it, coating it in red. You throw in a few meatballs, and scoop some into two plates, placing it on the table. There is enough to feed the whole country of Russia left over.

"See? You are almost a pro," Feliciano compliments warmly, taking a seat at the table. You grin stupidly, pushing your chair closer to his. He twirls his fork around the spaghetti, pushing it into his mouth, sighing approvingly. You do the same, letting your fork dance in the pasta. Everything tastes amazing.

You decide to do something you've always wanted to do. You take a long string of spaghetti, sucking it slowly, letting it travel up your mouth. Instead of finding the end, though, you are welcomed to the feel of Feliciano's lips against yours, soft and warm. Your piece of spaghetti (apparently also his) has brought you together.

Sure, the kiss is accidental, but neither of you pull away. You kiss him back, tangling your fingers through his hair, as he pulls your face closer. His kisses are wonderful and deep.

After the lip-lock is done, you breathe heavily, resting your head on Feliciano's shoulder. You try to remember some Italian you've learned over the months. "Um, mi piace... tu." You know you've said it all wrong from the laugh that comes from him.

"Eh, in Italy, we usually say, 'ti amo.'" And he kisses you again.

You smile against his lips, knowing exactly what you'll tell your friends.

_It all started with a strand of pasta._

* * *

_**Things le Non-Italians should know:**_

RAI= Italian news channel

Cucina= Italian hand-soap

Most Italians I know go to church on Sundays (my grandmother goes everyday though... lol)

As we Italian's think; the more the better! That's why we always reuse leftover soup or pasta and stuff, because you can't finish it all in one meal

Al dente= pasta cooked to be firm but not hard

"Ma che cosa fai?!" Google translate will tell you _but what does_ which makes no sense. It really means _what the hell are you doing?!_ You could say _MA CHE CAZZO _but that is a _very_bad word XD

Every meal at my grandparents always consists of vino (wine), pane (bread), sugo (tomato sauce), and even some cold cuts like salami or prosciutto~

Nonno= grandfather

Nonna= grandmother

"Come si dice..."= how do you say...

"Mi piace tu."= I like you, but usually everyone says...

"Ti amo."= I love you 3

Look I pretended like I knew something! :D

And YES, Italy is smart in this one! c:

Enjoy the crappiness SOB ;n;


End file.
